Advent
by Lady Grantham
Summary: December 1919. A Countess and her lady's maid.
1. December 1st

_December 1__st__ 1919_

This year, Lady Grantham leaves the tree to the children. Violet has been complaining about her involvement for years, insisting that a Countess should _never_ be seen climbing ladders and perching stars atop a tree, and perhaps she's right? It's hardly dignified to have one's derriere obscenely on display while groaning with the effort of stretching for the top, particularly at her age. She supposes it's that that bothers her the most. She's noticeably older now, marred by lines and wrinkles that had not been there the year before, and the lasting effects of her illness are all too obvious. Perhaps next year she'll feel stronger, but _this_ year she feels the strain in her back, the tightness in her chest at the conclusion of even the shortest of walks, and it becomes impossible to ignore her own mortality when she's creeping ever closer to the grave.

But it doesn't quite feel the same merely _watching _from an archway as the Christmas tree comes slowly together, and even O'Brien seems to be entering into the festivities, draping a bauble here and there, and she knows full well how her maid feels about the Christmas season. It's hardly her _favourite_ holiday – indeed the name _Scrooge_ comes to mind, though those are Mrs Hughes' words, not hers – but O'Brien indulges her all the same, every year without fail. For the first time that day, Cora cannot help but smile.

There's an audible gasp as the tree lights are switched on, but O'Brien looks at her instead. There's sympathy in her eyes, and a wealth of understanding, and, as the other woman comes to stand beside her as the others cloister together beneath the gargantuan tree, Cora feels considerably less alone.

"It's a lovely tree, m'lady," she comments lightly, by way of greeting, and perhaps she sees the look on Cora's face because she quickly smirks instead, a tiny curl of her lips and a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. "But I liked it better last year."

They exchange a smile, Sarah's soft and Cora's grateful, and look back to the tree that is _decidedly_ inferior to last years in companionable silence.


	2. December 2nd

This year, the invitations for the Christmas Day Ball are unforgivably late, though after everything that Cora's been through this year Sarah thinks they'd be best calling the whole bloody thing off, and Sarah's natural talent of forgery finally comes in very handy indeed.

It's not a skill she advertises; that is, she doesn't put it on her _resume_, but it's handy nonetheless, and her mistress does not rebuke her, at least not this time. It isn't as though she's practised after all, but she tells Cora so, because she suspects the reality is even worse, but it's hardly _her_ fault her ladyship is so distracting. It isn't easy to focus on her _own_ work with her lady's brow furrowed so endearingly in concentration, when her lips are pursed with purpose, and when the occasional sigh of pleasure escapes unbidden when the Countess is satisfied with her work. It's the expression that was yesterday superseded by a sort of haunting sadness.

Sarah can't bear that look now – hasn't been able to since 1914, and perhaps long before – and of course a Christmas tree doesn't have the power to inspire the sort of misery the loss of Cora's son does, but it hurts her all the same, and injures Sarah's heart too.

But it's gone now; Cora is focused entirely on her work, scrawling Marchioness of Flintshire here and Lady Margaret Skelton there, and the names mean nothing to Sarah, except a vague image of Susan Flintshire's sour face, but she watches ink on parchment twist and swirl and loop-the-loop the way she knows it will, watches letters form in the delicate handwriting she knows by heart, and does the same herself, muttering some cock and bull story about _practising_ for a moment just like this, in order to avoid the sad, pathetic reality.

That she's spent so many years watching Cora, admiring her, _adoring_ her, that she knows every bit of her by heart.


	3. December 3rd

Bond Street, god help them, is sheer bedlam, and for once Cora wishes she had listened to her mother-in-law. But she had been determined: it isn't _her_ fault there is no Tiffany's in the godforsaken countryside, and this year Sybil deserves something special. So do Edith and Mary for that matter, but _they_ haven't eloped to Ireland and shunned their allowance and married a chauffeur Cora doubts has ever even _heard_ of Tiffany's, but perhaps she's being unfair. The woman holding her hand – she's always hated crowds – has heard of Tiffany's after all and she's a lady's maid, so it's conceivable a chauffeur might have encountered the store at some stage, though she doubts it! Still, he's a good man and he loves her daughter: what do diamonds matter compared with _that_?

She squeezes Sarah's hand for reassurance. She's always been quite fond of shopping, but she's used to empty streets and private fittings, not this absurd rush of Christmas shoppers. They'll have to come back to have her gown fitted, or perhaps she'll have to make do with the seamstress in Ripon? It's only habit that brings her down to a London dressmaker each year, and the desire to see her sister-in-law before the madness that is Christmas at Downton Abbey, but it's not a necessity, and O'Brien has made her feelings on her travelling so soon after her brush with death perfectly clear. She doesn't dare suggest a second journey. And she's inclined to trust her, after everything she has done for her.

After all, Sarah is the reason she's still here.

"It could be worse, m'lady." Cora isn't sure _how_, but Sarah smirks companionably. They're closer now, friendlier. There had always been a barrier between them before, a symptom of the Great Divide, but she doesn't feel it now. They've bridged it, somehow. "Lady Rosamund could've come along."

They _must_ have bridged it if she'll let Sarah get away with _that_. She giggles, until some clumsy footed woman barges into her side, but Sarah's hand merely tightens around hers, and the soothing smile the other woman flashes is a tremendous comfort. Her maid is strangely beautiful when she smiles.

"You're right," Cora murmurs, meeting Sarah's smile with one of her own. "I'd prefer to have _you_ here."


End file.
